Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [397]
Maillart rubbed the point of impact on his upper arm. “That’s no ordinary child,” he said. “I swear his bones are made of stone.” And there was the subject again, lying in his path like a boulder.
“Antoine,” he said. “Have you never seen the boy isn’t yours?”
“He’s mine because I claim him.” The doctor gave Maillart a quick, sharp look, then lowered his head and picked up a fallen almond. With the ball of his thumb he dug into the soft husk for the nut shell. Nanon and Sophie were parading past, arm in arm, letting their garments dry in the sun and wind.
“He isn’t Nanon’s either, in that sense.” The doctor took off his glasses and shot another glance at Maillart. “He’s Isabelle’s.”
Maillart swallowed. “Yes. I know.”
The doctor flashed him a startled smile. “I didn’t know you knew that.”
“I didn’t know you knew it either.” Maillart shook his head. “She’d let me know she was with child by Flaville before she went off to Vallière with Nanon. In fact I helped to arrange that expedition.”
“Why, you astonish me.” The doctor pulled the kerchief from his head and began to polish his glasses with it.
“Surely I’m no more astonishing than you,” Maillart said. “Bertrand Cigny—God rest him!—overlooked a great deal, but he wouldn’t have missed her giving him a child the color of Gabriel. And Isabelle—well, I can’t say I was pleased by her news, but I found I would have done anything to help her.”
The doctor replaced his glasses and went on studying Maillart’s face through the lenses.
“I thought the child had died at birth, or had miscarried,” Maillart said. “Well, I was ready enough to believe it—but now . . .”
The doctor nodded and looked away. “He’s growing into Flaville’s face.”
“It’s so,” Maillart said somberly.
“Flaville was a strong man,” the doctor said.
“I thought well of him,” Maillart said. “In spite of everything.” He gazed down the beach to the point where all the children had begun to gather around a couple of hampers Cyprien and Guizot were unpacking. Dermide was doing his best to start a quarrel with Saint-Jean over a ripe mango, but Saint-Jean backed away and let him have it. Nanon had settled some distance from the rest of the group, but when Moustique carried her a napkin full of food she accepted it. Zabeth came to join those two beneath the shade tree they had chosen.
“It’s strange,” the doctor said. “One doesn’t look for such peculiar histories to repeat themselves.”
Although the sun was bright as ever, Maillart felt chilled as if it had vanished from the sky. “Your sister,” he said.
“Indeed, my sister.” The doctor shook his head. “She came to me this morning—I don’t know what prompted her.”
But I do, Maillart thought. “You see?” he said. “That’s how that miserable Paltre might scheme to get his own back.”
The doctor looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Leclerc has a secret order—on proof of any such liaison a white woman is to be disgraced and deported to France.”
The doctor clicked his tongue. “What other secret orders has he got?”
Maillart didn’t answer. He looked at the water, where Sergeant Aloyse paddled among his comrades, his gray pigtail floating on the water behind him. Guizot crossed the strand toward them, signaling them to come share in the meal. Maillart watched as the sergeant stood up and shook bright drops of